The Truth Isn't What You Want To See
by Eriks Angel1
Summary: *REVISED AND UPDATED* After 2 years Christine returns to the opera looking for answers, only to be confronted with unexpected news. It seems her world is soon to be turned upside down again
1. Returning

**Disclaimer**: I don't own any of the characters *sob sob* they belong to Leroux and ALW. Most of the titles are taken from lyrics to the musical.

I'm making no money from this, my muse is just DEMANDING that I must write it regardless.

**A/N**:  I hate computers.  MY laptop crashed and I had to reboot, so ALL my writing is lost.  I managed to resurrect this story and, reading through, decided it needed a re-write, and so here it is!

Some good news though – I'M GOING TO SEE PHANTOM ON JANUARY 6th!!  (Just a little excited!!!)

Anyway, one with the story…     
  


  
                                                                                     **The Truth Isn't What You Want To see**  
  
**_Returning_**  
  
Christine Daaé felt preoccupied as she entered the Opera Populaire through a door known only to the performers. She craved concealment, admitting inwardly that it wouldn't take a great deal to shatter the ounce of confidence responsible for this impromptu journey from the vast sprawling estate that she and Raoul now called 'home'.   His image clouded her mind's eye for a moment, those honest and open blue eyes, the wide smiling mouth.  She knew what she was doing was inexcusable, how could she even think about causing so much unrest, stirring up the past once again.  She knew she had no right to play with other people's lives, to be the cause of so much potential hurt, and yet still she continued, deeper into the opera house she had once loved so dearly…

**_{@~::~::~::~::~::~::~@}_**

She'd never envisaged returning, not after all that had played out the last time she performed on the very stage she was now faced with as she watched through the partially open doors, screened from view of the oblivious performers, who were engrossed in rehearsal for the evening's performance.  
  
She relived with pleasure the hours she and Meg had passed during similar rehearsals; how they'd laughed and joked, crafting wild and fictitious tales to alleviate the boredom that so often prevailed. Many a time they'd incurred the pseudo-wrath of Madame Giry, as she urged them to focus on their lines and dance routines, often seeming to restrain the smile that crossed her own lips. 

Life had seemed so simple then, so innocent, and she'd taken it for granted, living an unknown dream that was soon to resemble a nightmare.   
  
She sighed wistfully, realising that the reception she received when her presence was discovered on this occasion was unlikely to echo those of the old days.   
She'd fled from the opera in the midst of mayhem, largely of her own creation, without so much as a thank you or farewell to any of her friends. She'd deemed this irresponsible at the time, but felt she had no other often.  She'd believed that there would be people who would worry for her safety, who would long for confirmation of her well being, and yet she'd never had the courage to provide it, even months afterwards.  
She'd cut all ties with the Paris opera house after the catastrophic events of two years ago, largely through fear. She had feared that if her location was revealed she might unwittingly become the centre of a certain individual's intense attentions once more, and, in the aftermath of the pain and destruction these attentions had caused once, it had proved a bleak prospect, and one to be avoided at all costs.  
  
And so she remained lost to all at the Opera Populaire, whilst keeping up with events there through the Paris grapevine. She knew that Carlotta had departed not long after the first and only performance of Don Juan Triumphant; the pain at losing Piangi had driven her almost mad, and escape had seemed the only reasonable solution at the time. Little had been heard of her since that night, although it was assumed that she'd returned to her native Spain to recover from her loss. 

It was rumoured that her parting words had been of venom and retribution against the Soprano who she deemed to be the cause of her downfall. How much of the tale was true and how much complete speculation Christine had never endeavoured to find out. She couldn't possibly feel any more guilt at her part in events that had caused others to lose so much that they held dear. Oh yes, the cost of rebuking the Phantom had been high, and to more than just herself.  
  
Christine stalled for only a moment as she recalled that dreadful resounding scream as the police and the audience had realised that a man had been murdered almost before their eyes. She relived the tumultuous uproar, as the audience became a seething mass of panic, clamouring for the doors, the anger and hatred of those who'd joined together to seek out the so called 'Opera Ghost' and exact revenge for the needless murders he'd committed.  
  
Was she really justified in returning here, in trying to rake up the past again? The question troubled her. She'd asked herself at least a thousand times, and had yet to provide a suitable response.   
She could think of many people who wouldn't thank her for rubbing salt into old wounds, and yet, despite such musings she knew that once and for all she had to find the answers to the endless questions that haunted her in her sleep and troubled her waking moments.

When she'd left, trading darkness for light once and for all, it was only a shadow of the intense realisation that it would become, that element of doubt gnawing at her tired and terrified mind, that maybe forsaking Erik wasn't the best course to take.  

Since then it had grown and spiralled until it threatened to engulf her future happiness entirely.  Erik haunted her thoughts daily.  

She assumed he had died, and for that she felt intense and lasting regret.  In lucid, waking moments, swathed in the seductive mystery of twilight she'd relived their kiss, that fire of passion that claimed her soul for the moment they were coupled.  All while Raoul slept on oblivious at her side.  
  
Guilt and remorse, and an undeniable sense of loss conflicted in her mind until she knew she would certainly go insane if she didn't find closure for all that had happened, and so, as though called by the angelic voice of the past, she had returned to the scene of her turmoil.


	2. Don Juan And What Followed

**A/N:**  Still working on revising this story, so if this and the next chapter don't seem to tie in at the moment then please bear with me, all will soon be sorted!!

****

**_Don Juan And What Followed_**  
  
"_Cchhhrrriissstine_, oh my, I can hardly believe it, you're here, and on the very day they've finally found HIM, you're back!".  
A flourish of movement and colour bombarded Christine and forced her mind back to the present, all thoughts of Erik scattered in the face of reality once more.

She silently reprimanded herself for being so unguarded and absent minded as to let a moment's nostalgia deter her from maintaining her anonymous air. She was, however, pleased that Meg had been the one to discover her. She was also silently grateful that her old friend seemed willing to overlook the fact that for two whole years she had never once contacted her. She doubted that everyone would be as forgiving as Meg, and so appreciated her friend all the more.  
  
Two years had barely touched Meg; she was still young looking, and pretty in her own way, but with an air of experience that belied her youthful appearance.  
Her face was a picture of unguarded delight at happening upon her old friend again, and she flew forward, enveloping the startled Christine in a warm embrace that more than made up for what they had not shared in the two years of her absence. Finally the two girls separated.   
"Meg, oh, I'm so pleased you're here, I'm so sorry for not contacting you sooner, I was so stupid" Christine blurted, so overjoyed that her friend had not turned against her after her hasty departure.  
For all the relief that ran through her Christine was vaguely puzzled and uneasy at Meg's ominous mention of 'HIM'. Perceiving that the younger girl was eager to tell her something she prompted her to elaborate, hoping but not quite believing that she wasn't about to broach the subject that Christine herself dared not.

**_                                           {@~::~::~::~::~::~::~@}_**  
  
It was a bleak fact that had plagued her day and night; that she had been the cause of Erik's almost certain demise. Mulling it over in her mind until she had completely convinced herself she was right, she was consumed as usual by an immense sense of guilt. Guilt so strong that it had compelled her to return to the opera to seek out the truth once and for all.  
  
"Christine, I don't mean to alarm you but I'm not sure you should be here, I mean, of course you should be here, I'm so happy to see you, but if they know you're back, they may drag you into this. After all, _you're_ the only one who _really_ knew him, the only one who would know for sure. Just think, the reign of terror finally closed forever." Meg gabbled, dramatic accentuation on her final words, as she herded Christine along dismal, labyrinthine corridors towards her old dressing room, trying to gain as much privacy as she could, and as much time to relate recent events to her long-absent friend.  
  
Christine flooded with horror as she caught snatches of Meg's excited chatter, and the colour drained from her face, leaving her pasty white, the perfect shadow of her former self. 

Overcome by weakness she sought the chair by the dressing table, trying to make sense of a thousand emotions the hastily spoken words evoked.  
"Meg, slow down, please, tell me again, and tell me _slowly_, but, most importantly of all, tell me this isn't something to do with what happened here two years ago!" Christine grasped her friend's arm to still her for only a few minutes, still grappling with the possibility that Erik was the cause of this tumult.  
Meg took the other seat, startled at the ethereal glaze in Christine's gaping eyes.  She sensed the despair that touched her friend, and longed to alleviate the pain as much as possible.  
"Do forgive me, talking away as though you never left, you know what I'm like" Meg paused for a moment, rolling her eyes in self-derision before, with a decisive glance she began her narrative of all that had happened in the last two years.  
  
**_                                          {@~::~::~::~::~::~::~@}  
_**  
The two friends remained engrossed in reminiscing conversation deep into the night. Christine absorbed all that Meg told her with growing horror and wonder.  She was astounded that, although she'd followed progress at the opera house there was so much that until now, she could never have imagined.  
  
The mob had gained entrance to the underground lair just as she and Raoul fled in Erik's boat.   
The Phantom, living up his name to the bitter end, seemingly vanished without a trace, eluding capture and leaving several hundred men anxious for retribution.   
Eager to vent their anger, they had ransacked the lair that had harboured their nemesis in secret for too long. 

So vigorous had they been in their wilful act of destruction that they'd all but taken the place apart, the result being that for some time afterwards the foundations of the whole opera house had been deemed unsafe. Rock falls had rendered the cellars and basements of the grand building useless; they'd been blocked off entirely.   
The managers had been keen to overlook this for a length of time, but finally, yet another freak rock fall claimed the lives of many of the men who'd worked in various capacities below the opera house. There was, inevitably, a public outcry.  
  
The Opera Populaire faced closure; word of the untimely deaths circulated freely and ticket sales plummeted. It seemed to mark the beginning of the end, especially after the scandal surrounding the Opera Ghost.  People often remarked that visiting the opera was taking your life in your hands, and, should you chance it, to avoid taking a seat too near to the chandeliers.    
The managers were forced to admit that whatever the cost, repair work must be carried out and the battle commenced to save the rapidly failing theatre. The only realistic way to achieve suitable levels of safety was to close the theatre while work progressed, and it was with heavy hearts and long faces that the managers announced their intentions to the sea of employees, wondering whether the Opera Ghost was indeed laughing at them from some secret and unknown place, having finally exacted the revenge that he'd always seemed to believe he was entitled to.  
  
                                                   **_{@~::~::~::~::~::~::~@}_**  
  
Three long, tedious months later the revamped Opera Populaire threw open it's doors once more to an inquisitive public.  
Despite all that had happened people were eager to experience the 'all new' opera for themselves, and it was with delight the managers welcomed hoards of enthusiastic theatregoers. French Aristocracy travelled from far and wide as never before. The performers played constantly to a full house.  It would appear that the gamble had paid off.  
  
Common gossip soon tired of the reinvented, thriving new theatre; success is rarely relished by those who indulge in idle chat, and attention once more returned to speculation the old Opera Ghost.  

Since the infamous Don Juan, and all that followed, nothing had been seen or heard of him, and it became popular belief that he had died in solitary desolation of a broken heart at the loss of the young ingénue whose mind and soul he had failed to capture.  
It was through such gossip that the Phantom was transformed from a terrifying monster with no heart or soul into a tragic, romantic figure of all that was wrong and unfeeling in relationships of the day. That anyone could drive someone to death through love seemed preposterous.  
In truth, people were capricious, ready to accept the latest piece of chitchat even if it was completely opposed to yesterday's speculation.  
However, the Opera Populaire certainly benefited from the widespread change of opinion. People flocked into the opera house, driven by inquisitiveness possibly more than a love of the theatre; they wanted to see the place that the tragic Phantom had called home.  
  
And so the opera, by fair means or foul, had been restored to its former social status. Life resumed its old and familiar pace and it appeared that the trying and difficult times could finally be laid to rest.

How naïve to tempt fate by believing that anything would ever be normal again.


	3. A Disaster Beyond Your Imagination!

**A/N:  **Still working towards something that makes some sense here.  Has anyone seen the terrible reviews that Dance Of The Vampires got on Monday night?!?!  I can hardly believe they can get away with printing such personal insults and some of the critics seem to have dished out.

**A Disaster Beyond Your Imagination**  
  
After an all too brief normality, the stage shook and a terrible crash resounded throughout the numerous corridors of the opera house.  The majority of the staff knew instantly what had happened; there had been another rock fall.   
Ominous as this should have been people were loathe to accept that the magnificent building was fallible, and so, as by fortunate coincidence it had happened during the day, when only the performers and backstage staff frequented the theatre, it was universally agreed that it was probably a one off, that there was really nothing to worry about, and certainly no justification for causing unnecessary alarm amongst the clientele.  Financial gain silenced the concerned few, they had lost out greatly during the previous months unrest.  And so it was unanimously agreed that silence would pay dividends.

  
Fate apparently had other ideas and the next day that ear-splitting rumble rang out again, louder, longer and more prominent than before.  
A raging argument ensued, which saw Andre, who, along with Firmin, had remained at the theatre despite the bleak outlook, threatened to walk out altogether.  After much persuasion he was pacified and a reluctant group was established and sent to the cellars to investigate and report any visible damage.  
  
An interminable period passed before they returned and reported that structurally there were no problems; all repair work remained intact. The rock fall had, however, claimed another victim; the party had uncovered the body of a man.   
  
As if that wasn't bad enough, they claimed to have identified the man instantaneously. They all concluded that they knew of only one character associated with the Opera Populaire who passed his days deep down below, adorned in dress clothes, swathed in a flowing black cloak, and who felt the necessity of wearing the white half-mask that they'd discovered with the body.  
  
All but official confirmation suggested that the mystery shrouding the disappearance of the Phantom, and proved a most successful crowd puller in those early re-opening days, had at last been solved. Erik was indeed dead.


	4. Where Were You, Strange Angel?

**_Where Were You, Strange Angel?_**  
  
Christine hung on every rapidly spoken word, and was wracked with sorrow upon hearing Meg's tale concluded.  
Yet, somehow, the guilt had subsided slightly. Erik had lived after she'd forsaken him for another, and seemingly in relative peace. Meg had assured her there had been no notes, no demands, no strange occurrences, nothing at all to suggest that the phantom was up to his old tricks or that he held anyone accountable for what had happened.  Everything had signified that perhaps speculation was closer to fact than they'd dared believe.  People had really started to question the existence of ghosts!

Christine gave a half-hearted smile; she knew Erik was nothing more than a man.  The most incredible, majestic, powerful, overwhelming man she had ever met, but a man nonetheless.  
  
She wondered how he'd managed to escape that livid mob, and survive undetected for two years before the cruel twist of fate had finally taken him. She wondered how he'd spent his time, whether his love of music remained, or whether she'd taken his inspiration as mercilessly as she'd taken his heart.  She couldn't bear to think of Erik surrounded by empty silence, no solace in the music he needed as much as she herself needed fresh air to breathe.  
  
Over and over she reminded herself that had she arrived only two days earlier she might have had chance to see Erik, to make her peace with him, and to finally admit the truth, both to him and to herself. To put an end to the sleepless nights and days half-lived once and for all.

  
Now she would never find release from her self inflicted prison of torment; every day she would be forced to live with the realisation that the man she had betrayed so blindly had probably died cursing her name and her very existence, oblivious to the feelings that, until this moment, she too had left unacknowledged.  He held her future in his hands in death as he had done in life, and the thought that she was being punished with this pseudo-existence mortified her.  
  
Christine yearned to return to Erik's underworld and witness firsthand how much damage they'd done, the ravaging mob. She needed to know what destruction she'd caused and cowardly left behind in her wake.   
Resolutely she took a candle and went in search of Meg, who had answered to the shrill calls of her mother just after concluding her story.  
This was one journey that she didn't feel capable of making alone.


	5. Down Once More

**_Down Once More_**  
  
Christine stood in the midst of mayhem.  She fought to draw breath upon surveying the devastated chaos that remained of Erik's home.  The sanctuary where she'd spent so many hours singing with a clarity that she'd rarely experienced since was ravaged almost beyond recognition.   
The house in the walls of the opera house foundations was nothing but a shell, a shadow of its former self. It was a haunting sight, far more so now that it had been vacated than when the 'Opera Ghost' had been in residence.  
  
Everything that had made Erik's dark underworld intoxicatingly alluring to Christine had been eradicated, completely destroyed. All that signified the presence of the mysterious genius had vanished, and in its place was an empty nothingness that troubled Christine more than anything she'd seen or heard since returning.  Not a single room had been left untouched, no secret place left uninvaded.  The intrusion was an insult to the senses, and Christine stood, self-accused, fully responsible for the nightmare she now stood in.

  
It was all so final, and screamed out to her that the changes that had taken place were irreversible. She'd longed to come down here and find that nothing had changed, that Meg had been misinformed, that Erik was alive, that his precious home and everything contained therein stood proud and dominating as always. How far from the truth her longings had been.  
  
It was a small mercy that Erik had managed to escape. If a group of people were capable of doing such damage to his home she shuddered to think what tortures they would have subjected him to in the name of revenge had they caught him.  
  
She fled the destruction, craving the bank of the underground lake, fighting against nausea.  She closed her eyes and thought of the world that Erik had once offered her. This underground realm, although strange, had been beautiful then, a place to inspire and encourage creativity. Now it was merely an empty space and she believed that to be her own fault. Had she stayed things may have taken a completely different route.  
  
Countless times the words ran through her head like a chant. If only she'd followed her instincts sooner, if only she'd returned a day or so earlier.  Now she would exist, but never feel alive again, and she deserved such a grim fate.  
Sleepless hours spent in agony hadn't hastened her return, hadn't stopped Erik from dying, and hadn't changed the fact that she'd consented to marry Raoul after a period of five years had passed. Why she'd agreed to this she didn't understand even to this day.   
  
In the specified five years she'd resolved to put the ghost of the past to rest, to be absolutely sure of her feelings, and Raoul's, before committing to something that could make them both truly miserable.  
And yet, although life with Raoul hadn't been bad, she was still deeply miserable. She'd tried and failed to put Erik from her mind. His dark charisma and aura of power, the magnitude of emotion she'd experience during that one kiss, everything else paled into insignificance when thoughts of Erik took over.  
  
But she was too late, too late. The taunt tore through her fuzzy mind like a sharp knife blade until she could endure it no longer.  
"Oh, Meg, what have I done?" she cried, leaning on her small friend for support, feeling weak again.  
"Christine, you couldn't possibly have imagined the consequences of that night, anything that happened here wasn't your fault" Meg spoke the words with warm feeling, but Christine noted that the warmth didn't reach her eyes, which remained cold and unanimated. She thought this was strange, but in comparison to everything else she'd learned since her return it could be discounted for the moment.  
"I've seen enough, please, let's go back, I don't know how much more of this I can stand". Christine clasped her head in her hands, tortured and tormented; she wondered whether this was how Erik had felt for the duration of their acquaintance, as she denied him over and over again the one thing that would have made his life complete, her love.


	6. The Chorus Girl?

**_The Chorus Girl?_**  
  
"Christine Daaé?"  
The incredulous tone rang out sharp long the corridor, disbelief and uncontained mirth animating it. She turned, remembering Meg's earlier words about maintaining her anonymity or running the risk of being swept along on the current scandal.  
"Monsieur Firmin" she greeted the manager warmly as he took her hand briefly in his own, despite regretting the meeting instantly.  
She noticed how old he looked and surmised that the seemingly endless stresses of the last couple of years had finally taken their toll on the man before her.  She admired his strength of character for not abandoning what had seemed to be a sinking ship.  
"What a strange twist of fate, mademoiselle, or is it Madame these days?" he smiled, and raised an eyebrow in a knowing gesture that both angered and embarrassed Christine.  
"No, no, I'm not married" Christine reeled in discomfort at his logical assumption. She'd turned her back on this life for Raoul, wreaked havoc before running away without a backward glance, and still hadn't married him!  
Firmin, after a momentary look of disbelief mingled with certain contempt dismissed the awkward moment, steering her towards the office he shared with Andre. She was vital part of the plan he was concocting as they walked, he could never have expected her untimely arrival to be such a blessing in disguise.

**_{@~::~::~::~::~::~::~@}  
_**  
"Monsieur, what did you mean a moment ago, about a twist of fate, why is that so?" Christine enquired, playing innocent and secretly praying that he wouldn't implore her to become involved in proceedings regarding the body they had found in the cellars.  
"I'm afraid there has been an incident, Mademoiselle". He paused, as though for dramatic effect before resuming...  
"It would appear that our old friend O.G, who we assumed long dead has resurfaced" his expression became grave as he watched her intently, as if expecting her to flee from the room and out of his grasp forever.  
"Monsieur?" still she feigned ignorance.  
"We've had a number of small problems here since you left Christine, structural problems, rock falls in the cellars," he explained, suddenly stopping, giving her chance to say something. Still she remained silent.   
"We thought we'd cured the problem, but only days ago it happened again, at the cost of a human life I'm somewhat sad to say", Andre resumed the speech, which Christine was beginning to wonder whether they'd rehearsed previously.  
"And you think O.G is behind this?" Christine adopted the ridiculous title, barely managing to let it pass her lips without a peal of laughter following.  
"Not at all, no, on the contrary it would appear that he was flesh and blood after all. It's him we've found" he was cold and unfeeling, which Christine didn't criticise. How could anyone imagine what feelings she harboured for the man in the mask who'd terrorized the theatre and claimed innocent lives himself?  
"Forgive me, but I don't see how this affects me?" Clutching at straws Christine still wouldn't resign herself to the inevitable.  
The Manager paused, as though searching for the right words in such a delicate situation.  
"Well, mademoiselle, you seemed to have spent considerable time in his company, that is to say, you'd know him if you saw him again, whereas everyone else here can only surmise that he did die down in the cellars. I wonder if you could possibly identify the b..., Him, so that this chapter can be closed forever?   
  
Christine was filled with an all consuming numbness, the only thought crossing her mind being that at least he'd managed not to say 'body'.  
The resounding air of such a word was too final to be considered, as was the grisly task the two men before her were asking her to perform.  
But how could she realistically refuse?


	7. More Tricks, Monsieur?

**_More Tricks, Monsieur?_**  
  
Christine trembled in revulsion. The mere thought of the task the managers had so matter-of-factly assigned her sickened her but still she felt compelled to see it through.  
Now she had witnessed the result of her actions two years ago she felt obliged to put herself through as much pain as possible. She felt a basic urge to suffer in the way that she'd forced Erik to suffer. Only then would she feel any kind of absolution.  
  
Both Firmin and Andre accompanied her to the temporary resting place of the unfortunate victim. She mused that they thought they'd stand more chance of retaining her should she decide to flee if there were two of them. At any other time the notion would have bought a smile to her lips, but presently all she wanted to do was give in to the waves of nausea which threatened at regular intervals.  
  
All too quickly the trio reached a darkened room, well out of the way of the mainstream theatre. Firmin unlocked the door and gave Christine a gentle but insistent push into the room.   
Once inside she discerned that the small space had been intended for storage, but had rarely, if ever been used, and it contained nothing but a long, sturdy table.  
  
She would have given anything to look away at that moment, but her eyes were unwillingly drawn to the bulky figure lying on the table, covered in a dirty sheet, which had once been white.  
The managers strode over to this scene of death seemingly unaffected. Unceremoniously they took the sheet between then and threw it to reveal the man below.  
  
Christine stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, knowing that if she didn't see this through quickly then she wouldn't do it at all.  
"Oh. My. God" The words spilled from trembling lips as she moved closer to the table.  
She felt someone reach out and grasp her arm, offering ill-timed solace and comfort, but she remained transfixed, unable to draw her eyes away from the distorted face that lay before her. For all the damage the rocks had caused one thing remained undoubtedly certain in Christine's mind.  
Andre cleared his throat, disturbed by the young woman's intense gaze.  
"Well, mademoiselle"? a voice prompted her.  
Finally she tore her eyes away and turned to him, barely able to speak.  
He looked at her questioningly, longing for the confirmation that would end the mystery of the Opera Ghost.  
"It's him," she whispered.  
"I beg your pardon, what did you say"? he asked again, her words had been barely audible.  
She steeled herself against all emotion and looked him directly in the eyes, before repeating her statement.  
"It's him", she confirmed.  
"Now, if you don't' mind, I'd like some air, this hasn't been easy" she excused herself and ran down endless corridors, gaining the main entrance to the bemusement of unsuspecting people in the foyer of the theatre.  
  
Outside, Christine clung to the wall, gasping in lungfuls of fresh air, hoping it would rid her of the feelings that consumed her. Once again she had so many questions.  
How had it happened? Who had found him? What had he been doing down there?  
  
But, one question outshone all others, battling for dominance in her troubled mind, and she knew that until it was answered she would remain in turmoil.


	8. What New Surprises Lie In Store?

**_What New Surprises Lie In Store?_**  
  
Christine had reclaimed her old dressing room without question, it seemed natural that if she was back then she would use the room.  Apparently since her strange disappearance two years ago the room hadn't been used once.  

Performers were well versed in the old stories, and many were superstitious; they feared that should they dare occupy this room and anger the opera ghost once again they would be the next victim to disappear without explanation.

It was the only time that Christine was thankful for idle gossip, for in this room she was protected from the outside world, which was buzzing since news of her arrival had spread.  Here she found seclusion, and a potential opportunity for more soul searching.

However, the Opera Populaire grapevine rivalled that of Paris, and when word had circulated that 'the' Christine Daaé had returned she'd been flooded with visitors, some genuine friends, the majority simply people who were eager to confirm that the rumour was indeed true.

**_{@~::~::~::~::~::~::~@}_**  
  
It was early evening when Madame Giry arrived.  She managed to snatch a rare hour of free time to visit Christine.  
The two spent a strained hour together, and throughout the meeting Christine was trying to discern exactly what wasn't right between them. It was nothing that she could directly pinpoint. The older woman had been strangely elusive and superficial, as though ensuring that their conversation didn't penetrate certain areas in case it sparked some revelation that she wasn't willing to face.  
Eventually, when the topics of everything and nothing had been exhausted Madame Giry took her leave, claiming that the Ballet girls couldn't rehearse without supervision, and there would be no end of trouble if they were unprepared for their next performance. Christine watched her retreating figure with regret, putting her strange mannerisms down to disapproval at her now infamous vanishing act of two years earlier.  
If she could have turned back time she would, but surely it wasn't so difficult to forgive? She hoped that she hadn't lost a valuable friendship forever.  
  
A timid knock on the door startled Christine from her abstract thoughts.  
"May I come in?" Meg peered around the door.  
"Of course" Christine gestured her to the spare seat. Meg looked flustered, and attributed this to a particularly stressful rehearsal.  
"Mother's working us harder than usual, she demands such _perfection_ these days.  I had to sneak away to see you.  You seem so distracted, Christine, I had to come, to make sure you were okay" her friend stated.  
"You were right Meg, I wish they'd never found out I was here" she replied, letting out a weary sigh, and deciding that she wouldn't burden Meg with all her troubles. She hadn't fully digested the magnitude of events at the opera herself yet, and she wanted to be certain before telling anyone, even one of her best friends.  
"The past will come back to haunt us all sometimes" Meg eyed her again, suddenly cold.   
The sudden change in Meg vexed Christine, who couldn't understand the malice that was clearly evident in Meg's tone. She didn't have time to ask questions.  
"MEG GIRY!" an angry voice shouted down the corridor.  
The moment was broken, as Meg sighed, claiming she'd known it would only be a matter o time before her domineering mother missed her presence on the stage.

"Really, I'm surprised the boards aren't entirely worn away, the countless hours we spend going over the same routine" Meg gave a weak smile, turned on her heel and tripped out of the room.

  
Christine found herself alone again, and felt herself drawn to the full-length mirror that claimed centre stage in the room. At last she had nothing but her thoughts to occupy her mind.  The incessant chatter that seemed to have filled the atmosphere for hours had at last subsided, everyone seemed to be occupied.  
  
In the consuming silence Christine was inevitably drawn to the man she'd identified only hours before. She could still see him, every time she closed her eyes his visage seemed stamped into her sore eyelids. It was an image that would haunt her long into the night, and she doubted that she would manage to sleep.  
She looked once more into the mirror, studying her eyes intensely, and knowing that a stranger stared back at her.  She been back only a few hours and already her face was pasty, tired looking, her eyes shadowed by black circles caused by stress.

A human heart can only take so much before it breaks under the stain, and she felt that she was coming dangerously close to breaking point.  She wondered whether she was suffering some form of delirium, for only an affected stranger could have lied in the way that she had, confirming the identity of a dead man when in truth she'd never seen him before in her life.


End file.
